Sóla Is Not Having an Existential Crisis: Life Lessons From a Dog

On purpose, belonging and the invisible leashes we carry…

I never set out to become an observer, and yet that is who I am.

I notice.

That is to say, I notice what I notice, which is not necessarily what anyone else is noticing.

This morning, while walking our puppy Sóla through the changing colours of autumn, I noticed the wind moving through the trees and persuading the leaves to let go.

Fiery reds and yellows danced briefly in the air before surrendering to the ground.

I found myself thinking about their purpose.

They had offered shade through the summer, absorbed light, protected the branches and participated in the life of the tree.

Now their season was ending, but they were not becoming useless. They would return to the earth and nourish whatever came next.

Their service was being recycled into the universe.

Sóla, meanwhile, was sniffing a damp patch of grass with the concentration of a forensic investigator.

I was contemplating impermanence.

She may have been smelling urine.

This is how our walks tend to go.

I think about life, death, purpose, freedom, childhood conditioning, the nature of belonging and the possible spiritual significance of fallen leaves.

Sóla smells things.

The simplest life lessons from a dog may be these: notice what is here, love your people and do not waste a perfectly good walk trying to solve existence.

A Philosopher Who Has Never Read Philosophy…

Sóla lives in the present moment more successfully than any philosopher or brilliant author I have ever encountered.

She does not appear to be trying.

She does not wake up wondering whether she is fulfilling her potential. She has no five-year plan, no personal development strategy and no concern about whether she is making sufficient use of her gifts as an Icelandic sheepdog.

She does not even have sheep.

Unless she counts us.

She wakes up ready to participate in whatever the day presents. She wants food, companionship, safety, adventure, play, affection and the occasional opportunity to steal something she knows does not belong to her.

Her tail wags as though the world is constantly revealing secrets that only she can smell.

She does not need life to have a coherent narrative. She does not revisit yesterday’s poor decisions or worry that she may have chosen the wrong family.

She does not compare her progress with the other puppies or wonder whether they have better careers, more impressive homes or larger social media followings.

She sees a leaf moving in the wind and chases it.

She finds a stick and carries it proudly.

She meets another dog and immediately wants to know whether they might become friends.

Her simplicity is her philosophy.

Of course, it is easy to be a Buddhist when someone else is paying the bills.

Sóla does not worry about where her next meal will come from because I do that for her. She does not schedule veterinary appointments, research nutrition or wonder whether she will have adequate resources in retirement.

She is able to surrender to the present because someone else is carrying her future.

There is something deeply beautiful about that kind of trust.

Perhaps that is part of what we humans are seeking too. Not necessarily to become thoughtless, ambitionless creatures, but to feel safe enough to stop anticipating disaster for a little while. To believe that we belong somewhere. To know that someone notices when we are hungry, frightened, tired or far from home.

Maybe presence comes more easily when we trust that someone is watching over us.

The Philosophy of the Leash…

Sóla is physically tied to me when we walk.

She has not always appreciated this arrangement.

She has bitten the leash, pulled against it and occasionally conducted a small protest against the entire concept of being domesticated by a human.

There is still something beautifully wild in her, something that does not understand why she cannot run wherever her nose leads her.

But she has been remarkably quick to find a happy medium between wildness and belonging.

The leash restricts her freedom, but it also means companionship, safety and adventure. It connects her to the person who knows the way home.

Always. Forever.

I am her guarantee. Along withe her “father”; my son.

When I am with her, I hold the leash, so technically I am in charge.

Then again, she sometimes gets to fully determine when we stop, how quickly we walk and which patch of grass deserves an extensive investigation. My schedule now revolves around this dog’s meals, naps, exercise, education and bodily functions.

I also follow her around carrying small bags of her business.

The hierarchy is not entirely clear.

I am training Sóla, but Sóla is also training me.

She has trained me to leave the house in all kinds of weather. She has trained me to interrupt my thoughts, pay attention to another living being and organize my day around something other than my own mood.

She has taught me to praise generously.

Very generously.

She has reminded me that joy likes structure, that play is productive and that sometimes the most useful thing one can do is go outside.

The dog is being domesticated, but so am I.

Our Invisible Leashes…

As I watched Sóla moving happily at the end of her leash, I began wondering what I am tied to.

We are all tethered to something.

We are tied to people, responsibilities, roles, histories, expectations and identities. We are tied to the lives we have built and to the stories we tell ourselves about who we must be within them.

Some ties restrict us.

Some ties steady us.

Some ties lead us home.

Sóla’s leash is visible.

Mine is not.

And then another question arrived, because apparently I cannot simply take a walk:

Who trained me?

What was instilled in me when I was small, as Sóla is small now?

What earned praise?

What created disapproval?

What did I learn to do in order to feel safe, loved and included in the pack?

Perhaps I learned to be capable. To anticipate what others needed. To notice the atmosphere in a room and adjust myself accordingly. To be strong, useful, responsible and independent.

These qualities have served me well. They have helped me survive, build, lead, love and care for others.

But even our strengths may contain old training.

We learn what receives affection and what creates distance. We learn which parts of ourselves are welcome and which ones must remain quiet.

Eventually, the training becomes so familiar that we stop recognizing it as training.

We call it our personality.

A puppy receives a treat for sitting.

A small human receives approval for being good, easy, clever, helpful, quiet, cheerful or strong.

Neither necessarily understands the larger system.

We simply learn what belonging appears to require.

The difference is that humans can continue obeying instructions long after no one is giving them.

We can spend decades walking at the end of an invisible leash without asking who is holding it or whether we still want to go in that direction.

What Do We Really Want?

How different are humans from dogs when it comes to our genuine motivations?

We like good food and occasional treats.

We need movement, stimulation and rest.

We want affection, reassurance and someone who seems genuinely pleased when we enter the room.

We want to explore, socialize and belong to a pack that will notice if we disappear.

We want freedom, but most of us do not want to be completely untethered.

Perhaps what we want is the freedom to explore while knowing there is still a way home.

Humans intellectualize these needs. We give them sophisticated names and build elaborate theories around them. We pursue success, status, independence, purpose and self-actualization.

Sóla wants a snack and a cuddle.

Sometimes I wonder whether we are all doing variations of the same thing.

We want to know we are doing well.

We want our efforts to be noticed.

We want to feel useful without being used.

We want someone to have our best interests in mind.

We want to feel safe enough to play.

We want to belong without losing our wildness.

Purpose is not always a magnificent calling waiting to be magically discovered. Sometimes it may be as simple as caring for what has been entrusted to us, participating fully in the life before us and allowing ourselves to be connected.

Why do we choose responsibility for another living being?

Why become a parent, partner, friend, caregiver or keeper of a small, energetic animal who may attempt to eat the furniture?

Maybe because responsibility creates relationship.

Maybe caring for another life gives shape to our own.

Maybe purpose is not only about what we accomplish.

Perhaps it is also found in what we tend.

What the Leaves Know

Autumn has always seemed to invite questions.

The leaves turn brilliant colours just before they fall. They do not fade quietly into irrelevance. They become vivid, almost celebratory, and then they let go.

They do not appear to consider release a failure.

They do not cling to the branch because being a leaf has become their identity.

They serve their season, surrender their form and become part of what happens next.

Standing beneath them, I ask myself what I truly love and enjoy in my life.

What is still alive?

What has served its season?

What am I tied to because I choose it, and what am I tied to because I have forgotten that a choice exists?

Which bonds hold me with love?

Which old instructions am I still following?

What might I release if I trusted that letting go does not mean becoming useless, forgotten or lost?

Sóla has no interest in these questions.

She has found another stick.

Perhaps she is wiser than I am.

Or perhaps this is simply our arrangement. I make meaning of the walk, and she makes sure I actually take it.

In My Next Life

In my next life, I would like to return as a dog who gets to live Sóla’s life.

Not merely any dog. I have seen enough of the world to know that terms and conditions matter.

I want the warm home, dependable meals, long walks, interesting smells, affectionate humans, frequent adventures and enthusiastic praise for completing relatively simple tasks.

I would like someone to tell me I am brilliant every time I sit down successfully.

I would like no awareness of taxes, mortality, professional positioning or whether I am making the correct use of my one precious life.

I would eat, play, explore, sleep and love my people.

At least then I would not have to think so much.

Or perhaps I would still be having profound thoughts, and no one would ever know because I would be busy sniffing a leaf.

For now, Sóla and I will continue walking together.

I will hold the leash and wonder what I am tied to.

She will gently pull me toward whatever smells interesting.

I will contemplate the meaning of belonging.

She will simply belong.

And somewhere between her simplicity and my wandering mind, perhaps we will both find our happy medium.